


This Is Not An Origin Story

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Experimental Style, Female Character of Color, Fix-It, Gen, Slayer Mythology, metatextual fiddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>History is written by the victors- you know that, don't you?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not An Origin Story

**Author's Note:**

> I always thought the First Slayer's origin story was bullshit. Thanks to the magic of fanfiction, I can just make up my own. I am not involved in the production of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and this school is not involved in the production of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

There are stories, and then, there are stories about stories. There might be truth in both, but it's the difference between smelling the living rose as it rises from the bush, seeing its softness and testing the points of its thorns, and smelling the rose once it's been subjected to the perfumer's art and given a new home in a heavy crystal bottle. Both are beautiful, maybe to you one is more beautiful than the other, but that's just you exercising your subjectivity. But which one is truly more beautiful?  
The living rose. Experiencing it is how you learn the truth about the rose.  
But is the truth always beautiful?  
It doesn't have to be; it's real.  
So, I'm going to tell you a story. It isn't real. Not according to what we know about our world, or about the world in which it takes place. Would you like that?

So, imagine that there's a girl. Well, a young woman. You might call her a girl, though, because she might be a lot younger than you are. Or, maybe, you're her age, and you think of yourself as a girl. But she's about seventeen years old. She has dark skin and dark hair, and eyes of gorgeous vivid brown, and she's tall and graceful and beautiful. We don't know anything about her personality, but we can imagine that she's like any other teenage girl. Sometimes, she feels very knowledgeable, and sometimes, she's sure she knows nothing. She can be very kind, very generous, particularly toward people close to her, but she can also feel trapped by the bonds of family and friendship. Maybe, sometimes, she just wants to be on her own. She can be cruel, petty, but she might feel bad about the mean things she says and does immediately after; maybe she doesn't know how to apologize. Maybe she's in love- with a boy, or a girl, or somebody who's neither, or with several people of any combination of genders. Maybe she's in love with love. Maybe she isn't in love, at all. Maybe she will be, one day. Maybe it's just not for her. Does she like art? Does she like sculpting, or pottery, or painting, or textile work? Does she like language? Is she a poet, or a song-writer, or an author? Does she likes sports, games? Does she like to be on her own, to run into an empty space, and keep going until the things she sees everyday are far behind her, but she can still observe them? Even when they're very far away, she knows that they're there, and it makes her feel very comfortable, but also a little scared. Like, she's no longer really a part of that life, her life, if she isn't right in the middle of it. In a way, it's a metaphor for growing up: changing your perspective on the things you've always known by developing literal or figurative distance.  
It's easy to imagine her as either exceptional or exceptionally ordinary. Maybe, she's both and neither. She has to be both- and neither- because all of this is true, but of course, none of it is. She's a young woman, beginning her life, and none of us can ever know who she truly is, because she doesn't yet know, herself. But to imagine that one knows matters- you have to make up something, you have to pick a direction and go with it, because whatever you choose is everything to what happens next. So, I'm choosing.  
What was she doing out that night? She'd gone out with a hunting party, and they were all coming back at the end of the day. It was summer, the air held the heat of the day even if the sun had all but departed. They had torches to light their way, so what was there to be afraid of? She's not sure she likes hunting. She sees its importance, sure, maybe even enjoys the action when she's in the middle of it. But it's such a strange thing, to kill an animal. Where does it go? Well, you eat the meat, obviously, and the bones are useful for all sorts of things, once you've cleaved them in two to get the marrow, and the skins can be treated to be softer than woven material, but there was an animal there, and now, it's gone. You've done something that can't be undone, and that's a strange thing to consider. It makes her feel strange- not sad, exactly, but- well, she doesn't know what. I'm not sure, myself, and I'm writing this, so there you go. Maybe you and I can decide together. One thing you can do, she's observed, is to concentrate on the animal's grace, its ferocity, its beauty, and on the hunter's skill. It's like keeping the animal alive. It's only alive in the moments before its death, because that was the only time the hunter knew it, but maybe that was the most alive it ever felt. She's never faced death before, only ever thought of it in the most abstract terms, so she can only imagine it, make up a story and tell it to herself.  
She hears somebody call her name, out in the royal purple air of burgeoning night. She stops, gets several paces behind the other people in the party. Now, she just hears the wind in the tall grass, susurrating nonsensically, and beyond, knocking together the knobby branches of the tall trees. Suddenly, it's completely dark. The light was there, and now, it's gone. She walks forward another few paces, and it comes again. Her name.  
Now, what is her name? She wasn't given one in the original story. It makes a certain amount of sense, as she was never given a place in history. No one can accuse you of not knowing what you're talking about if you never make any assertions. When was she born? Before or during the common era? What part of Africa is she from? What language or languages does she speak? What are the naming conventions? If she were alive today and her name were unknown to us, we might call her 'Jane Doe'. If you look at the meaning behind those names, combined, they amount to 'female deer who is a gift from God'. Consider the imagery, and that of the young lady's original story. Consider Iphigenia, who was almost slaughtered by her father, but at the last minute was replaced by Artemis with a deer. Is this important to the narrative? It's entirely up to you.  
She hears her name. She stops again. And then, she sees them. Somebody she was close to. Maybe they're a paramour. Maybe they're a relative. Maybe they're a friend, or just an acquaintance, somebody to spend time with on lazy days. They're young, though, her age, and they were never known to be dead. They just disappeared. One day, they were there, and the next, they were gone. There was an extensive search of the area. Shifts of people went out, by day and by night, with dogs and clubs and knives and torches, looking in caves and ravines- following fast-moving rivers- taking boats out to the middle of the lakes and sending down swimmers attached by lines. They searched for a week, but after that, what would be left to find? What had happened? Some people said the missing person must have been carried away by brigands. Some said that it had to have been an animal. Some said that they had drowned, gone out swimming too far and been taken by a strong current, or experienced fatigue and sunk, or been eaten by a beast of the water. Some asserted that the culprit must be supernatural- perhaps a malevolent ghost, or some unknowable monster- what else would take a person away and leave no trace? Those of a more romantic turn were sure that the only thing that had carried away the missing person was a beautiful stranger, and that they had gone to live together in some place where no one had ever been. It wasn't out of the question- sometimes, people just left; got tired of the life they'd been living, and went off exploring. Sometimes, they came back, with incredible stories, and new technology and fashions, sometimes a new family, and everybody was overjoyed to see them again, and the initial joy never quite went away, and everyone felt changed for the better, as though they'd been on the wonderful journey, themselves. Everybody hoped that this was the case.  
So, she said to her lost friend, Have you been away? And, I'm so happy to see you! And, What have you brought back for us? Teasing and laughing, and she hugged them, but when she touched their skin, they were cold. Colder than anything she'd ever felt. Well, not really, but it seemed that way, because people aren't supposed to be that cold.  
And her friend said, Yes, I've been away. And, Yes, I have brought you wonderful things. And then, their face changed, distorted itself most horribly, and she screamed. The person who had been her friend lunged forward, going for her neck, and she struck out, with her knife and her fists and her knees. She bit the monster, very hard, and then it screamed, because nobody likes that. While the monster was startled, she stabbed it squarely in the chest with her knife, which was hewn from a tree that had turned to stone. Then, a peculiar thing happened: the monster was gone. One second, it was there, as solid as she, and the next, it was nothing. She wanted to laugh and to cry, at the same time, but she did neither. She got up. There was blood in her mouth, and not thinking, she swallowed. She turned around, and ran to meet her party.  
The weeks that followed were an ordeal. Suddenly, she became very sick. Her body blazed with such a fever that it hurt the hands to touch her. By day, she slept as though dead, and by night, she twisted on her bed, her muscles spasming of their own accord. No matter what medications she was given, she moaned with pain; when she was able to speak, she said it was like her bones were being crushed. Her family and friends sat with her as much as they were able to, because they were sure that the end could come at any time. Some said that she was the victim of a curse. Some speculated that she playing up for attention- it wasn't out of the question for young people to do this when they felt they were unappreciated. Some said that it was a new ailment, or a very old one, come back in the cyclical manner that disease often does. Nobody else fell ill, though, so as awful as it was to watch someone so young suffer so much, once some time passed, no one was overly distressed.  
She got better. It was sudden- more so, because everyone had expected her to die. But she was alive. Her skin was unmarked; her gait unaffected; her personality unaltered. After the fever ended, her appetite and sleep patterns returned to normal. She was the same girl she'd always been.  
No, she wasn't. How did she find out that she'd changed? It could have been anything. She had to have chores, ordinary day-to-day things to help take care of the house, that she resumed once she was well again. There must have been some lifting and carrying of objects that were pretty heavy, and maybe the heavy things weren't as heavy as they'd been in the past. But she was getting older; it was natural that she'd become stronger. The time would come, though, when she'd pick up something extraordinarily heavy, and then another thing, and another thing, and this, she couldn't explain away. It must have been terrifying, but also exhilarating. It would have been like the world had split open. She'd find that she was faster, too, and more agile, and that she could make her senses more acute. She found that if she concentrated, in the most quiet part of the night, she could hear the sounds that animals made, far off, on the uncleared plain and in the trees beyond.  
She couldn't tell anyone. What would she say? She certainly couldn't explain it, beyond imagining that it had to have something to do with the strange encounter she had some weeks earlier, with the monster who looked like her friend. Modern science and technology provide you, Dear Reader, with an understanding of viruses and how they work on the immune system; the concept of inoculation and antibodies. Let us think of vampirism as a virus: a full-blown infection can only come about with death by exsanguination; a partial infection will cause some of the effects, but there will be a partial recovery.  
What does she do with her new powers? She doesn't yet know that vampires are real- there are a lot of ways to rationalize what happened to her- nor does she know about the other things waiting out in the night. But she still wants to help other people, to do something good. So, she goes out hunting, by herself, in places where no one has ever gone, so she won't be seen, and is very successful. What isn't eaten immediately is preserved, and no one has to worry about doing without. There are a lot of good-quality skins to work with, for clothing and blankets and rugs and wall-coverings and all sorts of things. Of course, everyone wants to know how she does it. She tells them she's lucky, that she learned from skilled hunters, that she's made studies of the animals. These are good answers, if a little unsatisfying.  
She helps out with the construction of new buildings. She does a lot of manual labor, but she also watches the architects and the master builders. It's interesting work, something she'd never before considered for herself. Maybe she'll look into becoming an apprentice. There are a lot of opportunities. She'd always felt like her life was wide open, but now, more-so.  
But she starts spending more time alone. She's always been sensitive, dreamy, and she finds herself becoming meditative. She still likes to run, as far as she's able, now into places she's never been. She should be afraid, she knows, even though she's become so strong, but she isn't afraid. She goes out at night, more and more; she begins sneaking out. It's like she's looking for something. Maybe she is.  
Consider the need for a sense of community. Human beings, as a species, are social; vampires are humans, with a little something extra. The child-rearing strategies that make sense for humans also make sense for vampires: a new-born of either kind is not going to get very far if left on its own. Maybe the adult human or the experienced vampire will eventually choose a solitary life on their own, but in the early days, it's best to stick close to others. Even though she can also be described as a human being with something extra, there's nothing to indicate that this something extra has pushed out any of her humanity. Unlike a vampire, she looks human all of the time. She's definitely still alive. She doesn't burn in the sun, nor does she fear holy items. Her drives, her feelings, the things that make up her interior are human.  
She learns this when she comes upon another revenant. This time, it's somebody she knows to be dead- they were found in the morning, after failing to come home the night before, paler than any corpse anyone had ever seen, with marks on their throat in roughly the configuration of human teeth, but of course no human could have made them. The sight gives her pause, but she must move, when she sees that they're in pursuit of a young woman, screaming as she runs. It's so surreal- the girl being chased could be her- could have been her, that night, which was by now months ago. So, she chases the revenant, who is chasing the girl, and before the monster knows what's happened, she's on its back, stabbing it with her knife. It was easier finding the heart the first time, but she gets it, eventually, and the creature dissolves in a huff of ash beneath her and she goes to flying to the ground. She gets up. She's laughing. It's not especially funny, but this feels so right. By the time the other girl turns around, she's composed herself.   
“What happened?” asks the other girl.  
“That thing,” she says, with one last gasp of laughter, “I killed it.”  
“It was going to kill me,” says the other girl, and steps forward, then back, “but you killed it. Who are you?”  
And then, she says her name, and the other girl introduces herself. She offers her hand to the other girl, and they walk back, hand in hand, to their respective homes. It never occurs to her to tell the other girl not to reveal what happened.  
So, over the following days, everyone comes to hear about it. No one has any particularly compelling theories about her new abilities, except that they must have something to do with the first revenant. It was the bite, of course, say those who have studied disease and its transmission- the doctors and their assistants, the midwives and nurses to the elderly, the butchers and farmers, those who handle the dead, the amateur scientists. None of them have ever heard the word 'germ', but they understand blood-born ailments.  
Now, the accepted version of her story tells us that, to her community, she was nothing but a tool- that all of the Slayers were nothing more, until Buffy came along and decided to do things differently. Think about how strange it is that in potentially thousands of years of history, everyone has thought in the same way, about women, especially young women, and their role in society- that it's been one long slog through degradation and horror until the cleansing power of the twentieth century gave women the vote, and let them have it all, and stuff like that. It's so solopsistic, isn't it?  
But imagine that this young lady was not seen as a utility by her community, but as a treasure. And imagine that instead of sending her out on her own to live or die violently in the grip of some horrible night, they asked her for her help. Imagine her living as an honored member of her community- honored for her hard work as much as her strength and courage, living the life of a warrior, but also, living the life of her choosing. Imagine her getting older. Finding a trade, something to work at that would connect her to something other than death. Falling in love, choosing a partner or partners in life. Having children, perhaps. Growing older. Living out the natural span of her life. And then, toward the end, gathering around her those who had fought by her side, and those who had knowledge that others did not, and coming to a decision. That something of her, her strength and speed and agility and knowledge, should live among them after she had gone. In the form of another young woman, chosen at random, and given the knowledge she'd need in order to come to her peoples' aid, should they ask. Imagine not a violation, but a collaborative act.  
Imagine that this continued for decades, centuries, until unscrupulous parties uncovered the secret and found a way to twist it in their favor. Imagine more time, still, passing, and attitudes changing, and those who were more ruthless, still, taking power. Imagine even the story of this young woman being changed, warped, until all that's left is a horrible and pathetic tale about a girl betrayed by those with power over her and chained to the earth as living sacrifice to a monster.  
Then, imagine that the story ends. Well, it does in its original form. There are the spin-offs, the tie-ins, and of course, the fan works. Which is the real story? Can there be said to be one? History is written by the victors- you know that, don't you? Of course you do. By virtue of existing, now, after the authors have written the last chapter, and all of their knowledge is available to us, to use, to change as we will, the victors are none other but you and I.


End file.
